The Apocalypse Codex lf-4

by Charles Stross

  “Do what you will; I wash my hands of it,” Schiller says dismissively. “What of the Hazard woman and her associates?”

  “There are two angles to that. Firstly, we’re trying to establish what she knows.” Too much for comfort, that’s for sure, Alex thinks. She had to take a short cut through the Lost Lambs ward… “And we’re looking for where she went. We’ve got a warrant out for her on charges of aggravated assault and grand theft auto, thanks to the nurse she beat up—also firearms theft, because Nurse Stanhope had a pistol in her glove compartment. That’s going to get the attention of the State Patrol and every local PD in the region, and Sam Erikson is trying to get her on the TSA no-fly list.”

  Holt harrumphs. “Can you do any more? Charge her with murder or something?”

  Alex shakes his head. “Why bother? These are real felonies, they’re watertight enough to stand up in court. As long as the judge and jury and attorneys are all churched, nothing will leak; it’s always better not to lie, isn’t it? Besides, after tomorrow’s service and the Harrowing there won’t be much she can do. We’ll reel her in soon enough. What I’m more worried about are her associates, the McTavish man and her controller—”

  “Controller?” Schiller straightens in his chair. He’s taken a bite out of his pastry and some color is returning to his cheeks. “The British spy in Denver, right?”

  “I haven’t heard from Gordon and Lyons. They were supposed to bring him in four hours ago and they haven’t reported back. They’re not answering their cellphones.”

  “Really?” Schiller’s expression is unreadable. “Gordon and Lyons. Hmm. I would have considered them to be reliable…” He takes a sip of coffee. “Be patient.” He glances at Alex sharply. “And what of the other man? McTavish?”

  Alex swallows. “That’s the bad news. Stew went to take care of McTavish himself, with a posse: Benson, O’Brien, and Sergeant Yates. Stew’s called in. They tracked McTavish to a safe house. O’Brien and Benson took the front and—just vanished. McTavish exited in a hurry and got away from the deputy. Shots were exchanged. O’Brien and Benson are missing, there were no bodies—”

  Schiller puts down his coffee mug and leans forward, his expression intent. “First, the presence in the arena in London—a fellow elect. I could feel him out there, watching me. Then this sudden interest from this British agency, and now the Operational Phenomenology people in DC. And an attempt to infiltrate the Omega Course.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a picture of this McTavish?”

  “Sir…” Alex fumbles with his file for a few seconds. “This is the best I—”

  He trails off. Schiller stares at the grainy picture, his expression unreadable. “That’s him. The elder in the audience. Back row. I could feel him. I was right to bring forward Operation Multitude and order the wards of sanctuary emplaced, it would seem. We are under attack. Hmm. Unless, of course, he is drawn to the Mother Church he deserted…”

  “Sir?”

  Schiller puts his palms together before his face in a gesture of prayer. “Almighty Jesus, I beseech you, share your divine wisdom with me…” He closes his eyes, breathes slowly, then presently lowers his hands and looks at Alex. “Stewart underestimated McTavish. O’Brien is dead. Benson is unconscious. They are both some distance away, perhaps in Denver. I will tell you where they are when Benson regains awareness.

  “Meanwhile, Hazard and her employer are definitely in Denver, in a motel. I know this much by the blessing of Lord Jesus Christ. I can’t narrow it down further without the witch feeling God’s hot breath on the back of her neck, but our Lord will lead them into our nets by and by.” He blinks heavily. “Bring McTavish to me for a visit, Alex. The others you may kill if it’s possible to do so without scaring off McTavish, but he the Lord has a use for.” Alex is already standing to leave as he hears Schiller continue: “Everyone go, except sisters Roseanne and Julie. We must pray together now…”

  * * *

  LATER, AGONIZED AND PURIFIED, SCHILLER RETREATS TO HIS private chapel to seek guidance through solitary prayer.

  The chapel is a small basement room, accessible via a bare, concrete stairwell branching from the corridor connecting his public office and his private apartments. Dominated by dark oak paneling, crumbling with age—bought from a seventeenth-century church in faraway Scotland that was being renovated—and featuring bare flagstones by way of a floor, the room is dominated by an altar and a featureless, man-sized stainless steel cross bolted to the wall behind the altar.

  There is a bible on the altar—a huge, leather-bound affair, its cover studded with clasps and padlocks—and a stone chalice.

  It is before these items that Raymond Schiller kneels, eyes closed and hands clasped in fervent prayer. He prays with his whole body, quivering and brimming with faith.

  “Lord, hear thy loyal servant.” The words leak out through clenched teeth, more of a subvocalized whimper of desire than a verbal declaration: “For though I am but a weak vessel of flesh, damned to eternal torment for my sins, my sole desire is to serve the temple of righteousness and to raise the ancient of days. Lord, hear thy loyal servant. For though it says, ‘and in those days the destitute shall go forth and carry off their children, and they shall abandon them, so that their children shall perish through them: yea, they shall abandon their children that are still sucklings, and not return to them,’ I have brought mothers to the motherless and children to the barren, to be fruitful and multiply in service to thy will.

  “Lord, hear thy loyal servant…”

  Abruptly, Raymond’s chapel isn’t so small anymore.

  The floor is still flagged with slabs of limestone as broad as a man’s arm is long, and the altar waits before him. But the walls have receded into the distance and faded to the color of time-bleached bone, and the ceiling overhead is open to the starry night. Alien constellations sparkle pitilessly against a backdrop of whorls and wisps of blue and green gas, the decaying tissues of a stellar corpse hidden from view by the horizon. Closer, a dusting of silvery specks flicker and flare as they drift across the vault of the sky—the skeletal remains of vast orbital factories, although Schiller is unaware of this.

  If Schiller were to rise and walk to the walls, he would find a doorway in the center of each one. And if he were to venture beyond one of the portals, he would find himself leaving a temple atop a step pyramid towering above a desert plateau that stretches towards the distant, parched mountains in every direction that the eye can see.

  And he would be able to see the moons, orbiting low and fast, which are blocked from his gaze by the walls.

  ***Report.***

  The words thrust themselves into his mind like knife-sharp icicles rising from the thing that feeds between his legs, as a vast, chilly awareness slams up his spine and usurps his brain’s speech center to give voice to its demands. A bystander would hear nothing, but to Schiller, the still, small voice of his god is louder than thunder.

  “I am a damned soul and a miserable sinner…”

  ***We will be your judge. But not in this time and place. Report!***

  The force of the demand drives Schiller to his hands, abasing himself before the sarcophagus-shaped altar (which has grown longer and broader, and is now of pale gray stone, embossed with intricate and disturbing knotwork elements that confuse the eye of the watcher).

  “Lord! The mission to the leadership of the British government has been an unconditional success! The introduction we seek will be forthcoming within days, and with an endorsement from the Prime Minister, the chair of News Corporation will have no alternative but to see us. Once Mr. Murdoch is one of ours, we will have full access to the largest satellite and news broadcasting organization on Earth to bring our ministry to—”

  ***There is a disturbance in Sheol. Are you responsible?***

  “Lord? I don’t understand…”

  ***Four of the hosts I placed at your disposal are missing. Three have been destroyed but another is offline. Report.***

&
nbsp; Schiller racks his memory, then realizes what his Lord is asking. “Ah, we have a small problem. A cell of spies dispatched by an autonomous arm of the British state has attempted to infiltrate us. We repelled their attack but three of our people were killed in the process. We are now searching for the apostates—”

  ***Three hosts are destroyed but one is offline. What befell the offline host?***

  Schiller is baffled and terrified. A wind blows through his mind, a desiccating ice storm from an arctic valley where it hasn’t rained for a million years, drying up his will and freezing his brain in mid-thought. Then it subsides, as quickly as it blew up: his Lord has satisfied himself that Schiller has no answer to give and is still, at heart, entirely a creature of faith.

  ***Two active hosts were with your minions when they went to apprehend the British spymaster. One of them is dead. The other is beyond my awareness. Searching…ah.*** The expression of surprise is a sharp intake of breath on Schiller’s part; his Lord has no lungs with which to draw air, and has in any case long since exhausted the universe’s capacity for surprises. ***It is in the hands of an enemy. Our worshipers have met this British agent before. Do not attempt to convert him; bring him alive before Us. He will be of great service in the end times ahead.***

  Schiller’s body shudders, muscles twitching spasmodically as the most distant echo of his Lord’s unhuman emotions bleeds through his amygdala, triggering a fit. Seconds pass; Schiller lies still for further minutes, recovering, before the inner voice addresses him again.

  ***What of the Task? Report.***

  “As soon as I was informed of the attention we were attracting, I ordered Operation Multitude brought forward. It’s very early, but I felt I couldn’t take the risk of waiting any longer. So we are bringing forward the ministry to the people of Colorado Springs, and have invoked the miracle of Fimbulwinter, as instructed. The airports are closing, the Great Ward is in place, and we have arranged for highway patrol checkpoints on all the roads we can reach. Tomorrow we will perform the Rite of Awakening and the Harrowing of the unbelievers for the first time before a congregation of seven thousand. If it works as expected, we’ll ramp up from there—Colorado Springs today, the whole of the continental United States by this time next month. It will take longer and entail more risks than the original plan, but we can start tomorrow—”

  ***A hundred million souls must be Saved, Raymond, in order to free my mortal husk from this tomb.***

  “Yes, my Lord. Thy will be done.”

  ***Then shall I bring about Heaven on Earth. And all shall be Saved who will accept my host into their heart.***

  “Thank you, Lord!” Schiller prays fervently.

  ***Bringing you here and protecting you from the forces of darkness that assail me saps my strength in this enfeebled state. Go now, and bring to me the pure of heart that I may take strength from the power of their faith. Go now, and detain the British spy Howard and his employees against my immanent return. Go now, and prepare the Rite of Awakening. Glory to God in the highest!***

  “Glory to”—Raymond rocks forward on his feet and finds himself once again in a small oak-paneled basement room—“God in the highest!”

  IN THE BASEMENT OF THE NEW ANNEX, DOWN A DUSTY STAIRCASE with fire doors at the top and along a corridor painted institutional beige and lit by ancient tungsten bulbs (some of which have failed), there is a green metal door. There is no room number or name plate on the door: just a keyhole, an ancient brass handle, and—above the lintel—a security warning lamp, currently switched off. Were it not for the lamp it might be a janitor’s closet or a power distribution board. And despite the lamp, the delicate, almost invisible runes of power traced across the surface of the door ensure that most of the people who pass along the corridor mistake it for such.

  Lockhart approaches the door with some trepidation. He pauses on the threshold, and an observer would conclude that he is nerving himself before he knocks, briskly.

  The door opens.

  “Come in,” says the room’s occupant.

  “Thank you.” Lockhart steps inside the office and sits down in the visitor’s swivel chair opposite the strange metal desk with the hulking hood like a microfilm reader. As he does so Angleton locks the door with a strange silver key which he returns to a matchbox-sized wooden case, sliding it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  “What’s he done this time?” Angleton asks as he stalks back towards his chair behind the projection turret of the Memex.

  Lockhart exhales explosively. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Possibly nothing, yet.”

  “Hmm.” Angleton glances at the elderly analog clock above the doorway. “It’s nearly twenty-one hundred hours. Not like you to be burning the midnight oil over nothing, is it? Can I ask why?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Lockhart’s mustache twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer. “But I was hoping you might be able to help me with a question of character.”

  “Character.” Angleton doesn’t seem at all put out by Lockhart’s refusal; he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There’s a word I don’t hear often enough these days. Especially coming from you.”

  “Of course not.” Lockhart is dismissive. “It’s a subjective value judgment and those don’t sit comfortably with ticky-boxes and objective performance metrics. It only comes into play when one is off the reservation.”

  “And is Bob—” Angleton catches himself. “Of course he is. Ask away, ask anything you want. I can’t promise an accurate answer in the absence of exact details of the situation, but I’ll do my best.”

  An observer, familiar with the internal pecking order of the Laundry, might at this point be justifiably taken aback. Here is Gerald Lockhart, SSO8(L), a middling senior officer in the backwater that is External Assets—a department most people (who are aware of it) think spends its time keeping track of loaned laptops—grilling DSS Angleton, a Detached Special Secretary (or, as scuttlebutt would have it, a Deeply Scary Sorcerer), one of the famous old monsters of the Operations Directorate: a man so wrapped in secrecy that his shadow doesn’t have a high enough security clearance to stick to his heels. But a typical observer wouldn’t understand the nature of External Assets. Or, indeed, be aware of Gerald Lockhart’s real job.

  “Hypothetically, then. Can you think of any circumstances under which you’d expect our man to break cover in the field and disobey an explicit order? That’s expect him to disobey, not merely signal reluctance before complying, or make use of loopholes.”

  Angleton’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you vetting him?”

  Lockhart shakes his head. “I’m not vetting him. It’s just a general enquiry I’ve been told to answer.” His tone of voice is flat.

  “Oh.” Angleton stares at him. “Oh dear.”

  Lockhart shakes his head again. “What are Howard’s weak points?”

  “Hmm.” Angleton stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. “The boy’s still hamstrung by a residual sense of fair play, if that’s what you’re asking about. He believes in the rule of law, and in taking responsibility for his actions. He’s personally loyal to his friends and co-workers. His personal life is boringly normal—he’s besotted with his wife, doesn’t use drugs, has no blackmail handles. In fact I don’t think he’s got any noteworthy character failings—these are all good characteristics in a junior officer. He’s not a sociopath if that’s what…oh.” Angleton sits up and leans towards Lockhart. “You didn’t give him a clearly illegal order, did you? Put him in a compromising situation or tell him to abandon a colleague or someone he’s personally loyal to—” Lockhart says nothing. “Oh dear.”

  “What is he likely to do? In the circumstances you, ah, speculated about.”

  Angleton grimaces humorlessly. “He has a history of, shall we say, being on the receiving end of abusive management practices. It has taught him to take a skeptical approach to obviously flawed directives. He’d use his initiative and try to square the circle
—do whatever he was told to, while mitigating the consequences. He’d bend before breaking, in other words. He’s loyal to the Crown, but he’s not suicidal or stupid. However, conflicts of loyalty could be a very sticky wicket.”

  “Ah.” Lockhart pause briefly. “You mentioned loyalty. Personal, organizational, or general?”

  “I’m not sure I follow your distinction.”

  “You said he’s unlikely to obey an order to abandon colleagues. What about civilian third parties? Informers and sources? Contractors and stringers? Family members or strangers? Where does he draw the line, in other words?”

  Angleton fixes Lockhart with a beady stare. “Bob is too loyal for his own good. The lad’s got a troublesome conscience.”

  “I…see.” Lockhart nods slowly. “That’s what I thought. Excellent.” He stands. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Just one moment.” Lockhart pauses halfway to the door. “Mr. Lockhart. The boy understands plausible deniability. And so do I. But I hope you’re not confusing deniability with disposability. That would be a mistake.”

  “Who for? Howard?”

  “No, for you.” Angleton doesn’t smile. “I will be very annoyed if you damage my trainee.”

  “Dr. Angleton.” Lockhart doesn’t turn; his voice is a monotone. “I have no intention of burning Mr. Howard. If nothing else, he would be extremely difficult to replace right now. But I have been instructed to establish whether he has the moral courage to do the right thing when he believes he’s been cut loose, or whether he’ll run screaming for his mother.”

  “Why would he believe—” Angleton pauses. “Are you expecting the OPA to take an interest?”

  Lockhart, by way of reply, opens the door and slips out. He doesn’t pause to borrow the key. Angleton stares after him for a moment before silently mouthing an obscenity in a half-forgotten language. Then, his face set in a frown, he turns to his Memex’s keyboard and begins to tap out instructions.